


The Bells of St. Clements

by CaramelMachete



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Babies, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gun Violence, Guns, Lullabies, Minor Original Character(s), Nursery Rhyme References, Officer!Dick, Police Officer Dick Grayson, The Joker - Freeform, but no kids die, children are threatened, children as hostages, death of a minor OC, i promise no babies are harmed, the major character that dies is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaramelMachete/pseuds/CaramelMachete
Summary: Dick has shot Roy’s bow a few times. Roy’s current bow is a beast with a 105 pound draw weight. Dick allows himself a small smile, remembering how delighted Roy had been when he got it, deliberately two pounds heavier than Oliver’s. (“Suck it, old man!” Roy had crowed.) Dick had been able to use it, but at that weight his accuracy had been terrible.Still, those 105 pounds now seem lighter than a feather pillow, compared to the pull of his trigger.“Officer Grayson, please wait here. Your union rep will be here soon, and she has requested that we don’t start without her.”***Police Officer Grayson kills the Joker while on duty.





	The Bells of St. Clements

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers are in the tags. 
> 
> The title is from an English nursery rhyme and singing game called "Oranges and Lemons." It starts out as a sweet children's song and then gets super creepy. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOk4pKRT4E8). 
> 
> Thank you very much to empires and lostemotion (gechoholic) for the betas. This fic wouldn't be finished without spread_my_wings (@fuyunoakegata on tumblr) - thanks for the cheerleading, handholding (my neurotic inner writer needed it with this fic for sure) and support.

Gotham Police Department issues straight-from-the-factory Glocks, .40 caliber G22s, with a magazine capacity of fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber, semi-automatic, with a trigger pull of 5 pounds, according to the specs. Dick was issued a used piece from a recently “retired” police officer, someone who had been even more corrupt than the standard Gotham cop and had been forced out during one of Gordon’s periodic house-cleaning exercises. Wear and tear and regular use had softened the trigger up, so Dick estimates that his gun only requires about three pounds of pressure. 

 

Dick surreptitiously rubs his right hand against the fabric of his pants. It’s been at least an hour, and yet he can still feel those three pounds of pressure against his finger, as if it is still pulling that weight. 

 

Bruce gave all of his proteges basic archery training, and Dick has shot Roy’s bow a few times. Roy’s current bow is a beast with a 105 pound draw weight. Dick allows himself a small smile, remembering how delighted Roy had been when he got it, deliberately two pounds heavier than Oliver’s. (“Suck it, old man!” Roy had crowed.) Dick had been able to use it, but at that weight his accuracy had been terrible. 

 

Still, those 105 pounds now seem lighter than a feather pillow, compared to the pull of his trigger. 

 

“Officer Grayson, please wait here. Your union rep will be here soon, and she has requested that we don’t start without her.”

 

Dick snaps out of his revery and nods at his superior officer. “Fine, thanks Corporal.” He takes a seat in the same interrogation room he uses himself, though today he is going to be the one answering the questions, not asking them.

 

“Jesus Christ on a cracker, what is he doing in here?” Harvey Bullock bellows, voice preceding his bulk as he enters the room. “Kid should be gettin’ a ticker tape parade, not an interview with internal affairs.”

 

Commissioner Gordon follows Bullock into the room. His glasses fail to disguise his tired eyes, and his raincoat droops over his exhausted frame. “Procedure, Bullock. We do this every time an officer uses lethal force. Doesn’t matter who died.”

 

“Cut the crap. We shouldn’t be following procedure at a time like this. We should be celebrating!” Bullock hums a tune that sounds very much like “Ding dong the witch is dead.”

 

“This isn’t Oz, Bullock,” Gordon snaps. “Even if the Joker is dead.”

 

***

 

Despite his gossip page reputation, Bruce Wayne is no idiot. He knows, Lucius knows, everyone knows that Wayne Enterprises is a target for villains. That being said, hundreds of employees need to enter and exit every day and get to work on time and business needs to continue, so they try to balance expediency with safety. Guests have to check in with armed security guards at reception. Banks of computerized gates stretch across the entrances, like subway turnstiles. Employees badge themselves in, each gate opening and closing just long enough for a single person to pass through. More sensitive floors are protected by additional layers of security. So far, the systems in place have worked reasonably well. 

 

Fifteen years ago, shortly after Bruce Wayne acquired an orphan from the circus, he decided to open up a daycare on the ground floor of Wayne Enterprises corporate headquarters. At first, the company only provided backup childcare, but the benefit had become such an effective recruitment and retention tool that the company now offered full time daycare to every child up to kindergarten age, and a popular after school camp for older kids. The program grew over the years, and now they offered care for an average of 150 kids per day, taking over the bottom three floors of Wayne Tower. With so many kids onsite, Wayne Enterprises increased security even more. 

 

The daycare, already past the first line of defense, lies behind a thick door - which can be accessed only by authorized employee badges - that opens into a secondary lobby. Another guard, not armed but well-trained, handles guests to the daycare, and the doors to the areas where the kids are can only be unlocked electronically. 

 

Some of Dick’s favorite rooms have always been the ones for infants. They are bright, cheerful, happy places that he volunteered in as a teenager. The room for babies under one and the room for toddlers under two are divided by a half wall. There is only one way to enter each room from the hall, via badged access. Each room has a vestibule for bags and car seats and the myriad other paraphernalia these tiny humans seem to require. There is a shared kitchen between the rooms, which is the only way short of jumping the half wall to move between them. 

 

Dick passes the body of a caregiver as he enters the toddler room, crawling on his knees. He pauses at the start of the half-wall, sitting up and using the corner as cover to take in the scene. 

 

Joker sits on a rocking chair in the infant room, a whimpering young toddler on one knee, a Smith and Wesson revolver and a bloody meat cleaver balanced on the other. One hand supports the child while the Joker gesticulates wildly with the other as he sings a lullaby in a high, reedy voice. Dick recognizes “Frère Jacques.” Dick studies the child for a moment, who appears to be physically unharmed but very frightened. The little boy, probably about a year and a half old, has fine blonde hair and is wearing a tee-shirt with a green cartoon frog on it. 

 

Three terrified caregivers hold more wailing children, sitting on the floor surrounded by more babies like a twisted parody of story time. Babies too young to be mobile lay on soft blankets or propped up against curved pillows. Some hiccup in distress or bawl in discomfort. A few older toddlers seem to be trying to hide behind brightly colored furniture, most of them crying. Harley stands next to the Joker, her mallet leaning against the wall, crooning endearments to a little girl wearing a red tee-shirt, her brown hair in two tiny pigtails. Harley is in her own world, focused entirely on the child she has settled on her hip. She’s not crying in Harley’s arms, but her  tear-streaked face indicates she had been recently. 

 

Dick drops back to his hands and knees and moves forward again. The Joker finishes “Frère Jacques” and starts a new song. “ _ Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top _ .”

 

Dick is vaguely familiar with the song, but his parents had never sung it to him. His mother had preferred Eastern European and Romani songs, and had never sung them in English. His dad exclusively sang Beatles songs. 

 

“ _ When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. _ ”

 

Dick passes the body of another adult, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the thigh, and pauses to take her pulse. Slow and thready, but there. Her eyes crack open at his touch, dazed but trying to focus on his face. He meets her look and nods, trying to communicate reassurance. Her eyes flick to his badge and then slide shut again.

 

“ _ If the bough breaks, the cradle will fall _ .” Joker cackles after he finishes the line. “Isn’t that fantastic? I love that line.” He laughs again, and Dick hears the songs of the chair rocking faster and harder. One of the babies cries harder, climbing in pitch, desperate, choking keens. 

 

Dick looks around for something to help the woman. If he stretches, Dick can reach a baby blanket abandoned on the floor. 

 

“Quiet!” the Joker bellows. “Shut that kid up!”

 

The baby’s screams subside into half-swallowed gasps and sobs. Dick tugs the blanket towards himself, slowly, silently, heart pounding, and ties it around the woman’s thigh.

 

“We need a new song now, don’t we, kiddies?”

 

“But puddin’,” Harley whines, “you didn’t sing the last line.  _ Mama will catch you, cradle and all. _ ”

 

“Quiet. Nobody asked you. I’ll sing my favorite song next.  _ Oranges and lemons, sing the bells of St. Clements _ .”

 

Dick knots the makeshift bandage as tight as he can even as his heart plummets to his stomach. This song, he knows. It’s a popular playground game in Great Britain, and for a while Haly’s had spent a month or two every summer performing around the United Kingdom. 

 

Suddenly the cleaver makes all too much sense.

 

***

 

Dick and Gannon are a few hours in to their day shift, and Gannon will not stop teasing Dick about the concealer and foundation he’d seen in Dick’s bag. Dick can hardly tell him that he uses it to hide injuries from his other job, so he laughs and deflects. He is conceding that, yes, he did indeed date a fashion model a long time ago and that it’s theoretically possible he may have picked up a trick or two, when they hear the radio call for backup at Wayne Tower. They’re on the far side of the city, but Gannon takes one look at Dick’s face and turns the sirens on. Dick radios back that they are on their way as Gannon steers the car into a u-turn.

 

On the street in front of Wayne Tower, half a dozen police cruisers block the street, lights flashing. Dick jumps out of the police cruiser before Gannon comes to a complete stop. Dick pelts towards the cluster of senior police officers conferring with a few Wayne employees. He knows Gannon follows, but he doesn’t slow. 

 

Bullock says, “SWAT won’t be here for another ten minutes,” just as Dick reaches the group.

 

Commission Gordon glances toward the sky. “It’s broad daylight, too.”

 

Dick interjects. “Commish, I know that daycare. I used to go all the time when I was in school. Send me in.”

 

Gordon glances at Dick before returning his gaze to the blueprints. “Grayson. You should not be working this case.”

 

Dick clenches his fists. “No - you need me now. Those floors are like mazes.”

 

Bullock shrugs, the movement exaggerated in his oversized raincoat. “The entire building is on lockdown and your dad is in there, kid. You’re too close to this case.”

 

Dick knew that Bruce had gone to work that day, but he wasn’t overly worried about Bruce. Bruce can take care of himself, his office is twenty-seven floors above the daycare, and the reports so far all stressed that the Joker and his goons have only invaded the daycare, planning on using the children as hostages. Bruce is probably stuck in his office or a conference room with the other executives, cursing that he can’t get away to change into Batman, frustrated as hell of course, but okay. If Bruce had been alone when the building was locked down, he would have gone down the secret elevator and Batman would be here, daylight or not.

 

“Tiny rooms, doors everywhere, crooked hallways. You need someone familiar with the space to get in,” Dick insists.

 

The executive from Wayne Enterprises makes a noise of agreement. “It’s designed like that on purpose, but I still get lost.”

 

“You can’t negotiate with the Joker, Jim,” Bullock says. “He’s not going to come out just because we ask nicely.”

 

Everyone flinches as the sound of gunfire carries clearly from the building. 

 

The head of Wayne security crosses her arms. “We don’t have time to wait for the SWAT team.”

 

Bullock glowers. “I hate to agree with the corporate stiff, but yeah.”

 

“Sir, let me go,” Dick says, keeping his voice calm but firm with effort. “I know how to get in through the playground in the back. Alone or send a team. Either way, we need to start getting those kids out.”

 

“Sounds like a suicide mission to me,” Gordon says.

 

Renee Montoya nods. “I volunteer. I’m not sure we have much of a choice.”

 

Gordon sighs and smoothes his moustache down. “Fine. Get a few more volunteers and go.”

 

***

 

“ _ You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins, _ ” the Joker continues. “Harley! They’re not paying attention! Get the brats to stop wailing! Pay attention to meeeeeeee!”

 

“But Mistah J, they’re just babies. I don’t think they understand.” 

 

Dick comes to a stop as close to directly opposite the Joker as he can. He still has at least another minute before Montoya takes care of her part of the plan and the others are in place. All he can do is wait, tense and ready. And hope Montoya completes her task before Joker finishes his song. 

 

“They’re not listening to my song. I don’t like it when people don’t listen to me. I think whoever is the loudest during the rest of my song gets to go first.”

 

Dick doesn’t dare peek over the partition, but he hears people moving around and the daycare workers making soft hushing sounds, stifling their own sobs, and the room quiets slightly.

 

“ _ When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey, _ ” the Joker sings. “See, that’s better.”  

 

Dick glances at his watch. Assuming Montoya hasn’t been delayed, he has about thirty more seconds. He eases his gun out of the holster and runs through a breathing exercise to steady his heartbeat. His right hand wraps around the grip. He times clicking the safety off with a beat of the song, and gets as ready as possible. 

  
“ _ When I grow rich, say the bells at Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know. Says the great bell at Bow _ ,” the Joker warbles. “ _ Here comes a candle to light you to bed _ .”

 

Then a few things happen all at once. 

 

The sprinklers in the ceiling go off and the fire alarm sounds.

 

The rocking chair stops rocking and Dick hears the sound of something metal hit the linoleum floor. Did the Joker drop his gun? Or the knife? Or was it something else?

 

Dick stands up and points his gun at the Joker. “Freeze!”

  
The Joker cackles. He is also standing, holding the baby in one arm against his stomach, facing out. The little boy covers most of the Joker’s narrow torso, which means Dick’s options are limited, probably narrowed down to only a head-shot to incapacitate the Joker without harming the child. The Joker has the cleaver in his other hand, though he’s waving it around instead of holding it against the baby’s throat. All of the kids are crying now, even the ones that had been quiet before. 

 

The door to the infant room bursts open, heartbeats after the fire system engaged. Dick sees Gannon rush through, followed by another officer Dick can’t see except for her extended arms but according to the plan should be Josephine MacDonald. 

 

Harley, still holding the girl with the pig-tails, moves towards the revolver that the Joker had indeed dropped, probably when he stood up. 

 

Gannon shouts “Stop! Or I’ll shoot!”

 

“You know what I’ll do to this little tax write-off if you take one step closer!” Joker says.

 

Harley’s own pigtails slap her in the face as she whips her head around, taking in Dick in front of her and the two other cops on her right. 

 

“Puddin’, I thought we were just going to use them as hostages,” she says.

 

“And what exactly does one do with a hostage when all hope is lost?”

 

“They’re babies!” 

 

Joker stills, tilts his head, licks his lips. His pointed, oddly pale tongue outlines his red lips and Dick represses a shudder. Then the Joker whoops with laughter. “Harley, Harley, Harley, my silly little jester. I don’t think you’ve been paying enough attention. But I have!” He shifts his grip on the baby, now red-faced and screaming, and points the knife at Harley, Dick and the two officers at the door in turn. 

 

“I see you, little piggies. All the little piggies, huffing and puffing. But I don’t think any of you are willing to risk this baby.”

 

Gannon says, voice admirably steady, “Drop the knife and put the baby down. Slowly.”

 

Meanwhile, Dick makes eye contact with Harley. She stares back at him, eyes wide. 

 

“Babe, Mistah J, police officer man, I’m gonna put the little girl down, okay?” she says, voice even higher than usual. Her gaze switches from Dick’s face to his gun and back again. 

 

“Harley, you stupid bitch, what do you think you’re doing?” the Joker hisses, then chuckles. “Oh, I see, you’re just going to pick up my gun. That’s my girl.”

 

“Course I am, puddin’.” She blinks twice at Dick. Her mouth twists, her own pigtails plastered to her head from the water coming out of the sprinklers, makeup already running.

 

Everyone waits while Harley kneels and eases the girl to the floor. The infant immediately clings to Harley’s legs, unsteady. Harley slowly reaches for the revolver at the Joker’s feet. 

 

“Do you know the rest of the song?” the Joker asks Gannon and MacDonald at the door, as if making conversation over tea. 

 

“I’m ready, Mistah J,” Harley whispers, nodding at Dick. 

 

Dick knows he has to act, and act now. He gives Harley a tiny nod, barely a move of his chin, then looks back at the Joker.

 

The Joker raises the hand holding the cleaver dramatically above his head, posing.

 

“ _ And here comes a chopper to chop off your head! Chop chop chop chop the last man is --” _ the Joker sings, but before he can say the last word, Dick fires. 

 

Three pounds of pressure.

 

Semi-automatic. 

 

One round in the Joker’s head.

 

Harley catches the baby as he falls.

 

The Joker is dead.

 

Dick - at half speed, movement jerky instead of fluid - puts his gun on the ground and takes two steps back.

 

Everything is noise. Hissing of the sprinkler system, clamour of the fire alarms, the babies crying, one woman screaming like she’s auditioning for a horror film, the other two caregivers sobbing.

 

MacDonald grabs her radio and speaks urgently into it, and after a brief discussion, the alarms and sprinklers stop. With the reduced noise level, Dick can think again. He wants to leave his gun on the ground, but leaving a weapon behind in an unsecured area goes against all of his training both as a police officer and a bat. He holsters it, thinking that it doesn’t matter anyway, his fingerprints are already on it, and there are a half a dozen witnesses. Dick doesn’t know why he thinks that, like he’s a criminal, but then he reminds himself that he just killed a man. 

 

Dick vaults over the half wall. Gannon has already taken the Joker’s pulse - Dick isn’t sure why he bothered, given what remains of the Joker’s face - and cuffed Harley. Dick drops to his knees and gathers both of the children that Joker and Harley had been holding, hugs them close, and doesn’t move. He hears other officers start sweeping the hallways, securing the rest of Joker’s gang, comfort the victims, make decisions, but he doesn’t want to let go. Can’t let go. 

 

Gannon eventually takes Dick’s arm and leads him out of the building. Dick realizes that Gannon is talking. “You did good, buddy. You did good.”

 

***

 

Dick answers questions until his voice goes hoarse, drinks some water, and answers some more. Finally they decide to let Dick go home, with a week’s worth of paid leave. It’s not a punishment, the officer from Internal Affairs takes pains to stress repeatedly, but given the high profile nature of the  _ incident _ , he might be more  _ comfortable _ off the streets. So far, his name hasn’t been released to the press, but it’s only a matter of time.

 

As he heads towards the door, the Commissioner stops Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve already called Barbara and told her what happened. You might want to make some calls yourself.”

 

Dick knows that Bruce must already know, and doesn’t really feel like talking to him anyway. The only person he wants to tell right now deserves to be told in person, so Dick just shakes his head.

 

“Son, you might want to think about calling a ride. You look a little out of it.”

 

Dick shakes his head again.

 

“It’s more than a suggestion.”

 

Dick forces a small smile of assent. “I’ll call my brother, then.”

 

Gordon walks away, satisfied, while Dick fishes his cellphone out of his pocket. 

 

“Jay, I know you don’t owe me any favors, but can you pick me up at the station, please? Gordon is sending me home early.”

 

“Wait, what? Why?” Dick hears the rising worry mixed with suspicion in Jason’s voice. “Are you hurt? I’m not going to help you hide any injuries from Alfred.”

 

“I’m not hurt, not even a scratch, it was just a tough case. I’m just a little shaky, and I only have my bike here.”

 

“Damn it, Goldie. Call someone else.”

 

“I’d really rather not, and I have something I need to tell you, face to face.”

 

Jason heaves a sigh, but Dick thinks it’s at least a little fake. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll be there.” 

 

Dick hangs up and walks to the front door to wait. 

 

He tries to think about what to tell Jason - and how - but his mind doesn’t cooperate. The only thing that Dick can think is that he knows why his parents never sang him lullabies in English.  _ Down will come baby, cradle and all.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/caramelmachete).


End file.
